Explanation Required
by Shikajino
Summary: In which Canada explains what makes a book great to a slightly confused America. A bit fluffy - seriously. CanUS. Language. Themes-ish. Human names used.


It was a cold day in Canada. Well, maybe a bit of specification should be used there. Because, to me, Canada's (the place, not the person) always cold; no matter the season or month or time of day. I'd spent most of my previous free time in one of my southern states, going to visit places like New York City or Philadelphia, both of which receive snow, only in the summer. However, as I'd gotten to know my northern neighbor better, I'd begun spending time in the snowy paradise that was Canada. I didn't really mind it all that much. I mean, lot's of free time to do all sorts of cool stuff, right?

Wrong.

Matthew had absolutely _nothing to do_ in his house! There were no video games and his TV only had five channels (four for news and one that played hockey twenty-four/seven) because he said he didn't need more than that. He spent most of his free time reading, which in itself wasn't terrible. I mean, I read books. _Really_ _I do_. No joke.

But aside from that, there was nothing to occupy my time with. _Nothing._ I turned on my heels and attempted to find Matthew and beg him to take me somewhere. Anywhere, just so we could do something. I honestly didn't care if the only place he took me was down the hall to his bedroom so we could show how much love we really had for each other.

I checked every room as I worked my way down the hall way. Not in the kitchen. Not in the bathroom. Not in the closest. Or the other closest for that matter, though Mattie really should get the second one checked out by a repair man (because there were only three places in the house we hadn't deflowered yet. The living room, however strange the fact that we did it in a closet before in the living room may be; the basement, because neither of us really liked the idea of cobblestones on our bare backs; and the kitchen, because Mattie refused to have his 'happy place' tainted with our activities [one of these days I'm planning on convincing him into it. I mean, he really gets going for maple syrup, so, if applied to the right places…]). Mattie wasn't in the bedroom, much to my disappointment. Nor was he in the dining room. The library proved fruitless; as did all of the rooms on the second floor (though that polar bear of his was in one of them watching a _National Geographic_ show on bears, I'd slowly closed the door and moved on to the next room). By the end of a half hour, I had failed to find my Matthew and had one place left to check.

I headed towards the living room, where I found him.

I stared from the doorway, jaw clenching. The water trickled softly down rose-colored flesh. The soft noises coming from the being in the room made my heart pound. My feet hit the floor hard as I rushed to his side.

"Matthew? Mattie! Matt? ! Wh…what's the matter? Why are you crying? Whose ass am I kicking? Mattie, tell me! Matt-" He cut me off with a confused look and a finger to my lips. Blinking slowly he opened his mouth to question my worry, only to stop, retract his hand from my face, and touch his own cheeks. He looked down slightly as he dabbed the tears from his face.

"Wh…what? Al…what do you mean, eh?"

After all the time I spent with the man, I still had trouble hearing as he spoke. His voice was so soft and airy, even during our times of intimacy; he only managed breathless groans of pure pleasure. His reactions mostly physical (he _had_ been raised by the French bastard after all. He'd been taught about sex from a young age and the Frechman had instructed him the on ins and outs [no pun intended. Really] of the act) instead of vocal; as mine had the tendency to be. (For some reason I had a terrible time roping in my sounds, which lead to problems during UN meetings when we were both suffering from over stimulation in our countries and _goddammit Mattie I need relief now so come to the broom closet and screw me_…).

"You're crying, Maple…" 'Maple,' was what I called him as a pet name. We decided if we were going to be together, we'd need some form of names for each other _('It's only normal' _I had assured him as he gave me a wavering glance, eyes roaming over my face as I gave him my million dollar smile), and I'd be damned if I even considered calling him 'Love' or 'Duck' or 'Bird' like that British idiot, Arthur, so we'd decided on 'Maple'. Sometimes, while in public, I'd call him 'Pet' and others 'Babe', but 'Maple' was the main one; the one I used when we were alone together. On the other hand, I had been dubbed '_Chaton_'. It's some weird French word, but Mattie assured me it meant something incredibly masculine. And that name was also only used during times of solitude. (Except during sex. When we were making love, we used our actual names. We didn't want to taint the innocence of 'Maple' or '_Chaton_' by using them; this was an unspoken rule we both followed).

"I…" he paused, confused for a moment at the blunt accusation, and rubbed furiously at his eyes. They burned like two small indigo suns surrounded by a sea of red, puffy, I-just-finished-crying-and-my-face-hasn't-gotten-used-to-me-being-done-yet flesh. "I suppose I was, Al. Nothing to worry about, eh."

I was floored. I moved to the couch and put the closed book that sat in the place I would soon occupy on the coffee table. Pulling the blonde into my lap, I clung to him tightly. "Nothing to worry about? What on Earth are you talking about? You never cry!"

I knew it was a lie. He knew it was a lie. In fact, everyone knew it was a lie (well, those that knew Canada actually existed, that is). The Canadian cried. A lot. In fact, he cried over everything. When he couldn't put his feelings into words. When we got back from a meeting and the thought that no one remembered him pushed too heavily on his shoulders. When his pet, his friend, his Kumajiro didn't remember him. When Russia scared him. When his people hurt. When war shook his slender frame. When he saw baby polar bears going out into the snow for the first time. When the world around him would be born in spring. When his favorite Canadian team won an important hockey game. When he was out of maple syrup (_especially _when we were visiting Arthur, who always made us 'breakfast'). When he had to get me to open the pickle jar for him. He cried every damn time. It was his way.

But he never cried like this.

His crying was a noisy affair (well, as noisy as he could get). His entire face would contort into whatever emotion he happened to be in at the moment (whether it be joy, fear, or frustration), his nose would run, his tears would come fast down his face, his voice would hitch up, and he'd start hiccuping. It was my job – my duty – to rub his back and calm him down.

Now, however, his crying was…off. It was quiet and soft, like he hadn't really meant to (and given the fact that he hadn't _noticed_ the tears, I s'pose it must've been an accident). I pulled him closer, cradling him in my arms. "Tell me, Maple. Why the tears?"

He sniffed, hands clinging into my, now slightly damp, dress shirt as the tears started falling again. They washed down his plump cheeks, leaving salty trails for more to follow. "Sh…she can't tell her family what's going on, e…ehh. H…her neighbor k…k…killed her, but she can't t...tell them. 'C…'cause she's dead and all."

I stared once again at my blonde-haired angel. My jaw tightened and my eyes flickered to the TV. It was off, so it wasn't a news story about some poor girl who would never have an Amber Alert put out for her. "Please forgive me Mattie, but…what on Earth are you _talking_ about? What girl? What neighbor?"

He looked up, seeing the confusion in my face. "My book, _Chaton_" He nodded towards the coffee table, and I looked more closely at the novel I had moved. _The Lovely Bones _by Alice Sebold. The cover told me it was a movie now, and from the image on the front, and the title, I could almost be certain it was centered for young women, not age twenty-something men. However, I let it slide because for one; you shouldn't judge a book by its cover, and two; I read romance novels that have fucking _Fabio_ on the cover. There's no room for me to talk.

The only difference between my reading of books and Matthews reading of books was that I never cried over them. "What?" I asked, pulling away from him a bit and raising an eye brow into my hairline. Texas had slid down my nose a bit, so I reached to straighten them, loosening my grip on the other blonde. "You're crying over a book? A _book,_ Matt? It's just a bunch of words, nothing too important. It's not even real. How can y—" For the second time within ten minutes I was cut off mid-sentence. This time however, it was the shock of getting a hand to my face that froze the words in my mouth.

He'd slapped me.

Canada had slapped me.

My little Mattie – peaceful, antiwar, tree-hugging Mattie – had slapped me.

Hard.

On the face.

He looked offended and pushed himself off of my lap and to a standing position. "What? _What?_ Alfred, how can you say something so _insensitive_! Do you even know what classifies as a good book?" I'll admit it; I was taken aback. Just a little. My little Maple Leaf had never been prone to sudden outbursts like the one that was happening now. It brought back memories of the last time; which had hurt me more in pride than anything (see: three hours of crying on my part). I was shocked at the accusation.

"Don't know what a good book is?" I was on my feet right along with him, glowering angrily straight into his eyes. "I think I know what a good book is!"

"Those _porn novels_ you read are not what are classified as good books, Alfred! You wouldn't know a good book if it bit you in the ass!"

"They are not 'porn novels', Canada! They are great pieces of literature!"

"Oh, pulling the 'Canada' card now, are you, _America?_ And no; no they are not!"

"Then what, pray tell, are good pieces of literature?" I was screaming at him by this time, my voice towering over his like an elephant does a kitten. I thought I scared him as he suddenly stopped.

Blinking hard, Matthew slipping his lower lip into his mouth, abusing it with his teeth. He pondered over my question for a few minutes before letting himself fall to the coach softly. His breath hitched and finally, "A good book is one that makes you_ feel_ something, Al." His eyes, now softened to their normal air, met mine (which were still hard and angry). "And not physically," he added after a moment, recalling the numerous times he's found me with one of my novels doing something he would have been ever so happy to help me with on his own, "I mean, feel something _emotionally_. The author should be able to make you connect with the characters. Make you feel what they feel. Go through their strife and problems with them." He gave me a small smile, the smile that melted my anger faster than the Arizona heat would melt a glass of ice sitting outside. "That, Alfred, is what makes a good book."

I felt myself nodding as he finished his small monologue before sitting down beside him on the sofa. I was only starting to mull things over in my head when there was weight pressed against my lap. I focused my eyes on my northern neighbor as he straddled my hips, licking his lips lightly before leaning in to capture mine. I blinked in stunned surprise before kissing back.

"Of course," he began, in that breathless voice (wait...was he..._purring_?) of his as he pulled away, "the things you read are good for, let's just say, other things. Eh?"

I smiled as I flipped him over. "Oh, really know? Is that how it's gonna be?"

He smiled back, eyes narrowed into seductive slits, "_Oui, Mon Chaton…_"

And, not for the first time, I found myself thanking Francis for teaching the boy everything Arthur had been too 'gentlemanly' to teach me.

I also loved it when he spoke French.

* * *

__

Oui, Mon Chaton – Yes, My Kitten.

So, unless kittens have suddenly become incredibly manly, Mattie lied to Al. And no, he doesn't regret it. Would you?

-Thoughts? Reactions? Just want to tell me things? There's a button for that. :D


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